


So what did I...miss? (Jamilton...ish. You'll see.)

by orphan_account



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alex is an extrovert because duh, Alexander actually gets sleep, America is messed up yo, Fluff, I don't like tags woops, I have a cameo here, I'mma steal your hotspots, Musical References, Other, There's a lot of real celebrities, Thomas is an extroverted ambivert, Thomas is angsty, also there's so much gay, and my friends are celebrities I guess, gayyyyy, happiness, he's Hamilton, life liberty and the pursuit of temporary pleasure, some nsfw content, sorry I went tag-happy, sorry Trump but idc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-08 20:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14701179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I'm not good at summaries. Just read it.





	1. Warps

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I ship old dead men. Sue me.

“Mr. Jefferson?” The stranger approached the sleeping president, who was sprawled across a desk. They tried again, a slightly more excited tone of voice. “Mr. President. Wake up, I do not feel at mercy to shake you awake!”

“Mmm.” Thomas Jefferson lifted his head. “What time is it?”

“Two forty-four post morning, sir.”

“Oh dear. I must have fallen asleep while working. Paperwork is honestly too dull for my liking.”

“I wouldn't know what that's like, sir.”

“Why are you here?” The Virginian straightened his back, adjusting his misshapen wig. One of his sandy brown eyebrows arched.

“I'm here to inform you of the doing of your vice president, Aaron Burr?”

“What...did he do?” Thomas asked carefully.

“I know this is not a big deal to you, I'm not sure if it would be a well-received message; but again, you may find it pleasurable, I am not sure―”

“Then don't tell me.”

“It's urgent.”

“You just failed to convey ― no, wait, you straight-up _denied_ ― the importance of this message.”

“My apologies, sir.”

Jefferson's lips formed a tight line. “Proceed.”

“Aaron Burr challenged Alexander Hamilton to a duel yesterday. The latter was fatally wounded, provided he just died at approximately two o’clock.”

“Alexander Hamilton is...dead?”

“Yes. Since you two were political enemies before, I wasn't sure how you'd receive this, but he also just endorsed your presidency, so―”

“Shut up!” Jefferson bellowed.

“Apologies, sir.”

“No..I should be sorry.” The president sunk lower into his chair, covering his face.

After a moment of overwhelming silence, he spoke, rubbing at his eyes.

“Find Burr.”

“Can do, sir. Then what shall I do?”

“Have him run a trial. Dueling..is it possible to outlaw it?”

“But, sir, it's tradition―”

“I…” Jefferson bit his lip. “Okay. I'll put more thought into it, but I do strongly believe that it hasn't solved anything.”

“Actually―”

“Stop.”

“Sir, delay may give better light as to what is best to be done.”

“That's what Burr said, and that is useless. I can't trust his sense of judgement…or him. Find him. He is as dangerous as Alexander says he is.”

“ _Said_ , you mean―”

“You may now go.” This messenger had overstepped an emotional line that Thomas was not willing to cross over, but the messenger was oblivious to this fact.

“Sir―”

“ _Go_.” Jefferson's tone was firm, but Madison noticed, once he stole silently into the room hours later, the insistent man was shaking with grief.

“Thomas.”

Jefferson knew this tone. Madison stated his name, not asking for his attention but saying it was essential. This man knew his friend was weakened to a certain extent.

So Madison attempted to play the devil's advocate. “You have hated Alexander for a portion of your life, so maybe―”

“No. I'm not going to remember him as my enemy. I regret that our friendship was only political, and that I used his mistakes against him. I...I regret that I didn't know him better.”

‘Thomas, please. Lack of sleep has weakened your common sense.” His tone was half-hostile, pleading, additionally firm and demanding, even; but the use of his friend's given name established some relationship.

“No. You know what, I need you to be absent from this room.”

“Jefferson―!” Madison was using formalities in a chastising tone.

“No. President's orders. Leave.”

A cold mist enveloped Thomas once Madison left. Everyone knew, if James Madison couldn't talk sense into him, no one could. So no one else came to try.

Jefferson had felt this way only once before― after his dear Martha died. It left an emptiness in the pit of his stomach that prevented the consummation of any food, and often water. But then, he was allowed, even entitled to let loose. Alexander Hamilton was one man, who barely had an intimate relationship with him during the endorsement, let alone maintained a platonic one. He wasn't supposed to be this sad, he supposedly hated Alexander to the extent that he could be happy over his rival’s death.

But what he mourned over wasn't because he had a relationship with this dead man. It was the lack of it. He hadn't attempted further than a political relationship, but he knew this man was something.

He longed to feel pain, to die along with his Alexander.

No. Not his Alexander. Just Alexander, his thoughts were haywire. He hated this man for so long, and the relationship was only established for political gain. He hated it. He hated this fact with every fiber of his being.

Selfish.

That's the word he couldn't put his finger on. The one that he thought fit.

Yet now, still, he grieved for Alexander. He wanted to scream, too hurt something, to commit a felony. His mind went from mourning to avenging, but someone had already been sent after Burr.

Thomas wanted to scream his throat raw, to rip at everything and go on a rampage.

He wanted vengeance now. He wanted death, he wanted to delve into a pit and curl info a fetal position and let darkness overtake him.

But...no. He led a country, he was the strong leader. The example. The one to hold everything together. Yet he couldn't even control his own emotions.

He barked out a laugh in spite of this.

He couldn't manage himself. Maybe the indecisive Aaron Burr could at least hold himself together.

In actuality, no ― Burr would be impeached by now if he was the president.

Thomas considered this. Actually, if Hamilton had allowed Burr to become president, but wouldn't have shot him…probably.

It was all his fault. This thought pounded on him like a heavy boulder― his fault, his fault, his fault... His fault.

His fault.

His fault.

He was to blame for the death of this man.

And now he couldn't do anything about it― Alexander was as dead as possible. He wasn't coming back. Unless...no.

The time machine. But― no. It wouldn't work. Paine must have been lying, it's not possible to go back in time.

But it was worth a shot.

If he died, oh well. He would see Alexander. The worst that could happen is death. Or nothing might happen. Thomas couldn't establish complete thoughts, instead assuming this was a good idea.

“Madison!” He raced down the hall. “Where is Thomas Paine?”

“How should I know?”

“You ought to. Wasn't he staying here?”

“Yes..”

“Which room?”

“344, I think. Why do you want to know?”

“Nothing. Thank you.” Thomas walked briskly down the hallway, nodding as people passed by at a considerably slower rate, with the exception of Sally Hemings’ children. Her eldest boy was sprinting after a man who was far ahead, and the younger three were playing around and running up and down stairs.

Once he reached the room labeled 344, he knocked fleetingly on the door, then walked in.

“Mr. Paine, you said you have an invention that can…” Thomas trailed off, then said quickly in French, “aller dans le temps?”

“Oh, yes, your excellency. You can go through time.”

“How exactly does it work without creating a paradoxical intervention of some sort?”

“If you're going to a point in time that you were alive in, or will be alive in, you go into the other you. But if you weren't or will not be alive then, you become an additional person in the world. So yes, if you went far back to Creation you could likely create a paradox, or could destroy the whole Earth. But if it's for a period in time you were alive during, it would be applicable.”

“Have you used it? Do you have it with you?”

“Yes, sir. I have it with me, I haven't used it.”

“Could the user of it come back to their time period?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Great, can you teleport me to the third of April, fifteen years ago?”

“Absolutely. Please step in.”

Thomas hesitantly stepped in to the machine, and was suddenly shouting at Hamilton during a cabinet meeting.

Then he stopped mid-sentence. He was in Hamilton’s office, and Alexander was writing something. He signed it, _your obedient servant; A. Ham_.

“Oh. Jefferson? I did not notice you come in.”

“Alexander. Could you tell me the date?”

“July 10th, _Jefferson_ ,” he said, seemingly taken aback by the use of his first name. This caused him to put emphasis on the use of Thomas' last name, though admittedly his own name sounded wonderful on Thomas' tongue.

“Oh no. Oh no no no..Alexander, we need you back. I need you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“You are going to die tomorrow.”

“What..”

Thomas grabbed both of Hamilton's hands, then pulled him out the door. They found themselves in a place that was New York, yet it wasn't. There was maybe a thousand people, and they had totally different clothing― no cravats, and women were wearing pants. There was an strange orange man at the front of a large crowd on a podium, who was talking about building a wall to keep immigrants out.

Alexander scoffed. “Who do he think he is?”

“That's Trump, man. You don't know who he is? He's, like, the grand-standing candidate for the Republicans,” said a guy next to them.

“Thank you.”

“And dude, what's up with your clothes?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look like that guy on the ten dollar bill.”

“Who?”

“Hamilton, I think.”

“Because that is me, I am Alexander Hamilton!”

“But you're dead!”

“That's the third time I've been told that,” Alexander mumbled.

“If Alexander Hamilton was alive, he would vote for me,” the orange “Trump” proclaimed. Good thing Hamilton was near the front. Thomas shouted, “Alex, wait!” But it was too late.

“Say, are you―"

“Thomas Jefferson. Yes.”

“Holy MOLY.”

Before Thomas had time to respond (likely questioning what a ‘moly’ was), Alexander was on the stage, mic in hand.

“America, I am Alexander Hamilton, and I would not vote for this orange trump.”

The orange Trump started swearing at him.

“Ah ah ahh! In addition, I myself am an immigrant. Our country was founded by immigrants. Heck ― if that's proper dialect ―  every one of you has at least some immigrant blood in you. I do have more arguments, but I think even one is enough to disprove this man ― in conclusion, I would rather French kiss secretary Jefferson than have this… this fruit be president.”

At this, Thomas turned a bright red and ducked, but he was too tall. Some around him who had recognized then began to snicker despite the situation, as Trump was trying to shove Alexander off the stage in any way possible.

“Thomas, do you agree?” Alexander asked, once safe.

“Yes, you know what, I do.”

Thomas walked up to the stage as people gawked. Alexander helped him up to the stage, and Thomas said, “yeah. Sorry, sir, but I don't think this is a good idea to prevent immigration.” Finding Alexander's hand, he wrapped his long fingers around it.

“Are you actually Alexander Hamilton? That isn't possible,” a reporter inquired.

“Well, I don't know how it systematically works out. I was in my study and then Thomas pulled me here. Ask him,” Alexander said, motioning towards the Virginian.

“Well, Mr. Paine invented a clearly successful time machine,” Thomas shrugged. “Also, I apologize for our lack of dialect and proper attire.”

Immediately, they found shirts for them, to be put on later. They stepped down from the stage, no longer hearing a word from Trump, who was being restrained for assault.

“Are you two gay?” another reporter asked.

“I don't think I know what you mean.”

“Homosexual?  Or, um, sodomites?” someone spoke up. “That _is_ legal now.”

“Oh, no, no, we're friends,” Alex said quickly, and something like denial stirred in Thomas's chest.

That's all he wanted in the first place, friendship, but now it seemed he wanted more.

Thinking the hand in his was burning with embarrassment, Alexander said, “well, at least, political allies. Maybe not friends.” He dropped Thomas' hand.

“No no no, it's fine―” Thomas started, but another reporter interrupted.

“What time did you two come from? Like, the specific date?”

“Um… July 10th, ‘04,” Jefferson said, and a wave of chatter washed through the crowd. A few people gasped.

“What?” Alexander posed the question in an interrogating way.

“You were gonna die the next day,” Thomas clarified.

“How did you know this, Thomas?” someone shouted.

“I went back in time one day to save him.”

Alexander paused. “Th-thanks, Thomas.”

“Well. Um, two people alerted me that you were dead, and Paine had invented a time machine, and I accidentally brought you to the future. Or whatever _this_ is. But, it probably is, if there's orange people.”

A few people snickered.

“Well, I ship you two,” one reporter said.

Alexander cocked an eyebrow. “What? How? I'm not an item to be exported.”

One person in the crowd pushed to the front. “Basically, shipping is when you put two people's names together because they're, like, a couple.”

Alexander twisted his hand into Thomas' grasp, who exclaimed, “Whoa, what?”

The person pulled out a thin black box with words. Then the words moved and disappeared into the top. It said, “Urban Dictionary/shipping definition/putting two people's names together to imply that they're in a relationship.”

The two founding fathers stopped reading.

“What is this?” Thomas asked, gripping the small box.

“It's a phone ― basically a small computer.”

“Computer?” Alexander asked, puzzled.

“It's a technology that has words and pictures that can move.”

“I'm still confused,” Alexander whispered.

“It's...a typewriter, and you can also draw and illustrate images on it.”

“Mm.” Alexander gave it up ― this was all too new. “Okay.”

The person took her phone from Thomas and giggled. “Actually, you know, they made a musical about you, Hamilton.”

“Really?” Alexander looked up. “A musical? About me?”

The girl turned around, then swore excitedly. “Ooh, what if we got Lin here to meet you?!”

“Who?”

“Lin-Manuel Miranda, the guy who wrote 'Hamilton, an American Musical’!”

“I would like to meet him.”

Thomas grinned. He could pick up a lot more about this immigrant when they weren't fighting, and he liked what he learned. For instance, now, Alexander was trying not to convey extreme excitement, but failing to hide this from Thomas.

“Yeah, sure. Am I in the musical?” Thomas asked.

“Actually, yess,” the girl started, but Alex cut her off. “Unimportant.” He opened his mouth to say more, but then the girl said melodically, “there's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait, just you wait―”

“Is that from the musical?” Thomas asked, seemingly irritated.

“Yep.”

“Gosh, I had better have a good role in it,” Thomas said, winking at Alexander.

“Are you sure you two aren't in a relationship?”

“I'm married,” Alexander said quickly, and it stuck Thomas as weird. He had said it―

As if they were going back.

What had Paine said? Did he mention getting back?

Wait, no ― it wasn't possible as of now, or then, or whatever, because he hadn't configured it yet.

“We can't go back, Alexander,” Thomas lied, his brow furrowing work fake concern.

Alexander stuck out his lower lip, then shrugged indecisively. “Well then, I'll be fine pursuing a relationship.”

“Are we gonna talk about the age gap?” Someone asked.

“It's twelve years. That's not very much, considering Alexander is nearly fifty. But he looks younger,” Thomas teased.

“Wish I could say the same,” Alexander flirted back.

“OTP!” Someone gushed, a kid with dark, unkempt hair in a ponytail and glasses.

“What?”

“It's like, your favorite ship,” said the girl who lent Thomas her phone. A guy near them smirked.

“Pose for the camera!”

“What?” Thomas asked, but Alexander had a good guess as to what the phrase meant. So he jutted out his hip away from Thomas and put his hand around the ex-president's waist, smirking.

They could get used to this.


	2. Settling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I had to up the ratings a bit because I swear I didn't mean to  
> But it morphed into smut  
> And I want a certain type of gossip in the newspaper, come next day

Alexander got a veteran discount, and with the help of a few people, the two founding fathers were able to rent an apartment.

They fought like an old married couple, and in a way they were. They were old, and they were a  _ couple _ of dorks.

(I'm sorry.)

“Alexander, did you finish the coffee?”

“No, we ran out.”

“Well, no shit, Sherlock, but did you have the last of it?!”

There was a pause.

“Yes…”

“Gosh dang it, Lex.”

“Y'know, you should come in here, Tommy..”

The aforementioned Virginian grumbled. “I swear to God, if you're naked again―”

“I'm not. I've got a serious question.”

Thomas exhaled loudly. “What?”

“So, like, we can't just live off of other people's money. We should get, like, y’know,  _ jobs _ .”

“Like what?”

“That, um, McRonalds thing or something?”

“McDonald's. Yes. That's a fast food place with insanely low pay and greasy food―”

“Admit it, Tommy ― you love the place.”

“I wouldn't say.. well, it's complicated.”

“Thomas, we aren't talking about us, we're talking about your opinion on a fast for restaurant.”

“Wh-so you're saying our relationship is complicated?” Thomas’ brow furrowed.

In response to this, Alex gawked, then quickly picked up his jaw, setting it firmly. “Well, what is.. _ this _ ?” He motioned between the two. “Can you explain it?”

Thomas opened his mouth, then shut it. He was about to say,  _ well, no, it's complicated _ , but that'd prove Alexander's point.

The bastard just smiled smugly as Thomas frowned, thinking.

Then the ex-president said simply, “it's a complex love-hate relationship.”

“Because you love me and I hate you?” Hamilton joked, batting his eyelashes.

“You are a true..what's the word? Asshole.”

“Thanks,” Alex grinned. “Anyways, so, you're getting a job at McDonald's.”

“I'm like fifty years old!”

“Great,” Alex responded monotonously, crossing his legs. “Get it.”

“And what are you gonna be? A stripper?”

“No, Tommy, but I can strip for you―”

“You are far too excited to get naked, aren't you.”

“Seriously, though? I can run for president,” Alex said, diverting the question.

“Psh. Who's your first lady?”

“Betsey…”

“Elizabeth is back in our time. You aren't going to see her again.”

Alex shut his mouth, and his eyes snapped up to Thomas. “Then who do you― oh  _ hell _ no.”

“Why not?”

“You're a man.”

“Fine then,  _ I'll _ be the president  _ again _ . You be first lady.”

“Or we could just not be in the presidential race.”

Frowning, Thomas shook his head. “Well, I don't want Trump to win.”

“Why? I'd French kiss you,” Alexander said, biting his lip in a hopefully suggestive way.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, and Alexander uncrossed his legs, opening them a little further.

“Or we can just do that now,” Thomas whispered slyly, and suddenly, his torso was between Alex's legs. He captured the immigrant's lips with his own and almost immediately tilted his head and inserted his tongue. It was a frenzy, Alexander had a death grip on Thomas’ hips and was digging half-moons into the man's t-shirt.

“Thomas,” Alexander groaned, and pushed away, inhaling deeply. “Oxygen is great.”

“Agreed.”

But Alex noticed the small bump itching to get out of Thomas’ pants.

“We should do something about that,” he said, cupping his hands over it.

Thomas removed Alex's hands and grinned, unzipping his jeans. “Isn't that nice? You're all ready for me, no underwear, no nothing. And you've got a natural lubricant. But...hmm. That's naughty. Maybe I should punish you.”

“I thought I was the dominant in this relat― OH YESS,” Thomas hissed, drawing out the last consonant.

Alexander raised his eyebrows in reprimandation.

“Well, hey, don't look at me like that while you're choking on the nine-inch express.”

Alex dragged his tongue across the bottom of the “train” and Thomas groaned, the sound coming from deep in his belly. “A-Alexander― can I do you instead?”

Pulling his mouth off of Thomas, he practically ripped off his pants.

“No. I'm going to ride you, okay?”

“Then hurry up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: meeting Lin


	3. Lin part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet Lin.

“Lex, I'm going out for lunch, don't expect me back soon.”

Alex muttered something incoherent and went back to typing something.

“Fine. Be like that. I'm not getting you any food.”

At this, Alexander perked up. “Sorry. I'll go with you.”

“Great.”

Thomas grabbed his hat and the two headed out.

They ended up in a mall, with a few stores surrounding them.

“What in hell is this? I thought we annihilated American monarchies?” Alexander was holding up a bag that read “Burger King” and another that proclaimed, “Dairy Queen”.

Thomas laughed, and kept walking.

“Wait, Tommy, are you associated with them?!”

“It's a brand. Sorta. It's a place where you sell food? Like McDonald's?”

“..Oh.” But Alexander still regarded them suspiciously.

“Waitwaitwaitwait Tommy.” Alex tugged on the older man's sleeve excitedly.

“Alexander, you're a grown man, not a child.”

“But  _ look _ .”

It was a small store, with hipster-like clothes.

“Thomas, that's me. Do you think that'd look good on me? I think it'd look good on me.”

“I like it better when nothing's on you.”

“Psh,” was all Alexander said, hitting Thomas on the shoulder.

“Secretaries Hamilton and Jefferson?”

The two both turned around in surprise ― they hadn't been called that since, well, their original era.

There was a man there of average height, with short dark hair and a goatee. His accent was slightly New Yorkian, and a little bit of something indiscernible that made it unique.

“Hello?” Alexander said slowly, shifting away from Thomas a bit. What if this person was from the past? They might think...or know?...that he was gay. No, bi; as ‘Hamiltrash’ affectionately called him. But that’s still 50% sodomic and illegal in his time.

“Hi! My name is Lin, um, Lin-Manuel Miranda, I―”

“You wrote  _ Hamilton _ !” Thomas exclaimed, and Lin bubbled you with pride, his eyes wrinkling in excitement.

“Yes! Yes I did! I heard you guys were here, but all I knew was― somewhere in America most likely, I wasn't even sure; I didn't expect to see you at the mall or out and about!”

“America has..if I'm saying this right...both improved and gone to shit,” said Thomas.

“Yep,” Lin shrugged. “But, yeah. It's a work in progress. I mean, Hamil―”

“Call me Alex.”

Lin's expression somehow got brighter than a ray of sunshine. “Alex! Your plan for a strong central government is great…er, sorry Thomas. The banks are great. The debt just increases, but individuals can live well..in most cases. Not many people like immigrants―”

“We know,” Thomas said sullenly, grasping Alex's hand loosely. Lin noted this gesture, but ignored it for now.

“So, are one of you two going to run for president?”

“Nah,” Alexander said, and the two met eyes. “We discussed it. Maybe you could, though..you've got some pretty good ideas.”

“I don't like getting political very often. Well, okay. That's a lie. Actually.. anyways. Irrelevant. I'm working on a...project for Disney, so I won't exactly be open to lead a country.”

“Disney?” Thomas questioned, suspicion lacing his voice. “Is that another conspiratorial monarchy?”

“Not in the typical sense,” Lin laughed. “But they do have a castle. It's a movie-making...business? Company? In all honesty, I forgot the word. Incorporation? Maybe. But, yeah.”

“That’s...weird,” Thomas said slowly, cautiously wording his sentences.

“So, Je― Thomas, I have a question. I don’t mean for this to come off as rude, but, um― okay, you know what, fuck it.  _ How _ do you justify owning humans,  _ slaves _ ― do you feel no guilt? I just wanna know your mindset, because...I just don’t understand how a well-rounded man such as yourself could be so cruel!”

“I… it was the easiest way to make money, and I didn’t know any of them― they weren’t caucasian, so I guess I thought that made them less human than me, because I thought I couldn’t really relate to them? My fathers were slave owners, and it was just passed on to me. An easy way to financially profit.”

“You seem to get along with Alexander pretty well,” Lin said softly, less-than-subtly hinting towards their intertwined fingers.

“So you’re saying he―”

“I’m  _ right _ here,” Alex interrupted sharply, pulling away. He avoided Thomas’ gaze and looked to Lin.

“Yeah, um. Can I―?” Lin asked, glancing between the two old men. Alexander nodded.

“He’s mulatto.”

“What’s that?” Thomas asked flatly.

“Ghetto, kind of…? Lotsa people ― i.e., Ron Chernow and his readers ― speculate that Rachel was part black,” Lin informed him.

“Among other things,” Alexander muttered, and Lin looked at him pleadingly, his eyes saying,  _ I know this is hard but this isn’t war so don’t make me choose a side of this argument _ .

“Wait...who the heck is Rachel?”

“Tommy!” Alex shouted, reminding Thomas of an angry child. “My mother! In Nevis? I  _ did _ have parents at one point!”

Thomas quieted. “‘At one point’?”

“You insensitive  _ ass _ ,” Lin grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She  _ passed _ . Dead.  _ Gone _ . Like your Martha.”

“Whoa, whoa,  _ whoa _ ,” Thomas said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Do  _ not _ bring my  _ dead wife _ into this.”

“The stop being a jackass about my  _ dead mom _ .”

“Fine. Sorry.”

“Yeah. Ditto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How would you guys like if these two bois had a shippy roommate named Devain who had a Hamilton-centered YT channel?


End file.
